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fistillassasslistalltheass
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And So, It Comes, To This: I Want to be the Alliteration that Everyone Loves. And by Nature: I Am the Description of an
Exuberant Bucket that Holds the Anticipation for this Answer. “And
that Little Shit of Paradise” She Said. This
Means: One Longs to be Forgotten,
to be Decimated, to be Reversed. The Story, of My Life, in a Nut:------------------------------------à“Never the Bridesmaid, Always the Bride…” A Trip, into the Wrecking Less, Comma, Let’s Call ‘Some
Dream’ in her pits. And the Recourse of
a Slurp. She Tells Me, How She Used to Love, the Action, of Unplugging the Phone, Around the Time,
She Knew, He was About to Call. Regardless:
I hope my Funeral and my Life-Long Moral Impartiality
won't go Unnoticed. Because I Worry
about my Legs, my Lungs, my Knees, my Prostate, my Future, my Meals, and Most-Importantly my Hair, the General
Theme here is of Anxieties Ripe with Freight. Leaning in with the Face out. For:
this Life is But a Flick-Of-The-Wrist.
For:
the Coming Winter is the Constant
that we Make our Bed Upon. And
This: an Arena to Convince Oneself, that Though there is Snowfall, there is
also, Apparently, the Sun. And So:
I Keep Methodically Dragging this Shit-Out
like Trash on a Thursday Morning, 6:15AM.
in
other words: Our History is not Offered
the Consolation of Being-Defined,
but Rather, it is, like the Wall Being-Subjected to the Anvil, the Ax,
the Weather, the Slow-Deterioration-Of-It-All. And Perhaps: this IS Our Only Recourse. And-Even-Further-Still, Perhaps, It is None of these Things. In Fact: Perhaps, This is Elizabeth Taylor, taking a Long-Drawn-Out Sip from a Drink, while Richard Burton, Looks-On Across the Pool and Through the Fence, with that Cold-Dumpstered Stare.
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"Armand Capanna"
"Armand F. Capanna II"
"Armand F. Capanna"
Armand Capanna
"Armand Capanna" Chicago
"Armand F. Capanna II" Chicago
